


Cassandra

by MisplacedLonelyHeartsAd



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s10e17 Inside Man, Gen, Mild Angst, Missing Scene, POV Sam Winchester, episode coda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2018-03-22 03:33:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3713320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MisplacedLonelyHeartsAd/pseuds/MisplacedLonelyHeartsAd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing scene and coda for s10e17 Inside Man. Sam gets a little insight into Oliver Pryce, the psychic.</p>
<p>
  <em>What sort of protocol was there for taking leave of a psychic after barging into his house and demanding a seance? Would an apology and a word of thanks suffice?</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cassandra

 

“…door number forty-two,” finished Castiel. “Opening the door will activate the gate, then I’ll jump in.”

“Good luck, Bobby,” Sam breathed.

“Yeah, I’ll need it,” Bobby’s voice declared. “But you know what, talking to you two, I ain’t felt so energized in—how long have I been up here, anyway?”

“Almost two years,” replied Sam. _Has it really been so long?_ He glanced over at Castiel, who was jerking his head at him in a “hurry it up” gesture. “We miss you,” he continued. “I—we gotta go, Cas says.”

“Okay, then. Goodbye, Sam. Say hi to Dean for me, will you?”

Sam hesitated for an instant, feeling Cas’s eyes boring into him. “Yeah,” he said, desperately wishing that he could have a long, private conversation with the man whose solid and earthy judgment he had always trusted. He swallowed hard. “Bobby, thank you.”

“No need for that; I ain’t done nothing yet.”

“You will, though,” said Sam. “Goodbye, Bobby.”

Cas instantly pulled his hands from Sam’s and the psychic’s, and the connection was gone. “Okay, so when we get Metatron—”

“Look, Cas, let’s talk about it in the car.” Sam looked awkwardly at their host, who began to calmly pinch out the flames of the candles. What sort of protocol was there for taking leave of a psychic after barging into his house and demanding a seance? Would an apology and a word of thanks suffice?

Oliver Pryce shot him a rather baleful glare and said irritably, “Don’t stand on ceremony. Do I look like I care? Here, take your hat and go.” Tendrils of smoke curled around him dramatically, and as he peered short-sightedly at Sam through the dimness, he looked every bit the mysterious and eerie soothsayer of old B-movies.

_A weird, kinda creepy little guy_ , Sam thought. He tried to clamp down on the words, not only because he knew that Oliver could read them, but because he knew they were fundamentally unfair. How often had he himself been called creepy, or weird, or abnormal? And those were just the opinions that had been expressed aloud. He rose from the table and put Bobby’s hat back in his bag. _Dean_ , he thought, _always had it easier_. He put it down to Dean’s natural good looks and ready smile.

“It’s not that,” said Oliver, suddenly close at his side. Sam twitched guiltily, and clutched the bag tight to his side.

“No?” he managed to get out in an approximation of a normal conversational tone.

“Nah,” said the psychic, affably enough. “Look—” he gestured to the poster of himself billed as “The Amazing Pryce.” “I wasn’t a bad-looking kid, was I? And I doubt you were, either. Okay, okay, so you think your brother’s a real looker,” he added drily, and Sam reddened. “But it’s not that. Let’s face it, being a psychic _is_ creepy. And weird, and abnormal.”

Sam winced a little at the repetition of the exact words he had been thinking. “Yeah, I guess that’s true.”

“But you, you’re not a psychic—” Oliver cocked an eyebrow at him. “Demon blood and yellow eyes? You’re not making any sense.”

Sam bowed his head. “It’s a long story.” A jumbled memory of his early visions, his moments of telekinesis, and the exhilarating, explosive power he had once commanded flitted into his mind. Oliver stared with genuine surprise and no little alarm in his eyes. “I couldn’t read minds, though.”

“Probably for the best,” said Oliver. “Before the Men of Letters got to me, I was just an ordinary low-level psychic with a good schtick. I don’t know why they thought I had ‘potential.’ But I guess they were right, because after I got a little training, I could hear everything. Everything! Who’d ask a kid to bear that kind of crap?”

“You think the Men of Letters ruined your life?” asked Sam anxiously.

“Eh, who can say? Maybe it was natural, and I just grew into it.” Oliver took off his glasses and wiped a lens with a corner of his cardigan, squinting and frowning. “Maybe it was unavoidable. But it was bad.”

“Yeah, I can see how annoying it would be.”

“It’s not just _annoying_ ,” shouted Oliver, brandishing his glasses so vehemently that Sam involuntarily recoiled against a bookcase. “Think about it! I can read everyone—the crooks, the murderers, the child molesters. And the _potential_ crooks, murderers, molesters. For a while I tried to warn people—the police, whoever I thought might be able to stop these terrible things from happening. It was useless. Nobody listened. Nobody.”

“The Men of Letters—” Sam began.

“Gone by then,” said Oliver abruptly. “And anyway, what would they have done? It was outside their purview. The mind-reading, that was kid stuff to them. They were more interested in the talking-to-dead-people stuff.” He paused and replaced his glasses. “I prefer dead people. More peaceful. So, everyone gets their own place in heaven? No one else to talk to? I’ll look forward to that,” he said sincerely.

“I can’t thank you enough for your help,” Sam said. “And I’m sorry if I came across as, uh, threatening, but—”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s your brother,” Oliver supplied. “Always your brother with you, isn’t it?” He clapped Sam on the arm. “Look, Sam, I like you. Come by and see me again. Bring that guy”—he pointed at Castiel, who was beginning to look agitated—“or any other angels you want, if they’re like him. Just colors,” he sighed. “Nothing but colors; I could get used to that.” Then he narrowed his eyes and jabbed his finger into Sam’s chest. His voice turned stern. “But don’t bring your brother and ask me to tell you what he’s thinking.”

Sam was shocked. “I—I’d never—I wouldn’t,” he stammered.

“You want to, though. At least you think it would be great if you could read his mind. It’s not great, Sam, believe me. You think because you love him and he loves you that it’ll be fine, you’ll understand each other.” Oliver shook his head and continued more gently, “It doesn’t work that way. The things I heard, from the people who loved me…” his voice trailed off. “You won’t understand, and it’ll hurt.”

Sam became aware of Castiel pulling at his sleeve and hissing urgently, “Sam, Sam, we have to leave now.”

“It’s not a gift; it’s a curse,” said the psychic. He glanced at a black-and-white photo on a shelf beside him. A man, a woman, and three children—the eldest recognizable as Oliver—dressed in the crisp fashions of the mid-fifties, posed in front of a gleaming Crown Victoria on a tidy suburban street. They looked healthy and prosperous; the picture could have been an advertisement for the American dream, except for one detail: none of them were smiling.

“Thank you again,” Sam called out over his shoulder as Cas dragged him away.

Oliver Pryce followed them and stood in the doorway, his bald pate shining, his eyes obscured by reflections off his glasses. “It’s a curse,” he repeated, shutting the door.

*****

“Hey, Sam?” Dean’s voice carried down the hall, and Sam reflexively slid Bobby’s note between the pages of the nearest book. He was splashing water on his face by the time Dean opened the door. “Hey,” Dean said again, then paused.

Sam buried his face in a towel and asked “What?” hoping he sounded normal. When he raised his face he found his brother looking at him with narrowed eyes and a searching expression that was alarmingly like Oliver Pryce’s.

“What’s the matter?” they said at the same time. It felt so absurd that Sam couldn't help laughing. “Jinx,” he said. “You owe me a Coke.”

Dean snorted. “You’re such a child,” he scoffed loftily. Changing to a slightly abashed tone he added, “I gotta tell you something.”

Sam closed his eyes for a moment. “Dean,” he said softly. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

Dean stared at him again, this time looking very much like Cas. Then he blinked and screwed his face into his usual “wtf?” expression, saying, “I just—dude, don’t use your toothbrush.”

It took Sam a moment to process the words. Dean leaned against the doorframe and asked hopefully, “Or did you use it already?”

“What—no!” Sam exclaimed. “I know better than that, you jerk.” He looked around his room and then back at Dean, who gave him a demure smile. “What did you do?”

“Nothing too bad,” said Dean, evading Sam’s grab at the front of his shirt. “Hey, I’m gonna make pancakes. So don’t take too long.”

“You just ate,” Sam protested.

“Cereal. Cereal doesn’t count,” Dean proclaimed, disappearing down the hall.

Sam sank onto his bed and rubbed his temples. He quashed his urge to run after Dean and spill everything. _He won’t understand, and it’ll hurt._ Instead he took Bobby’s note out again and reread it. “Kick it in the ass,” he murmured. _What happens_ , he wondered uneasily, _to troublemaking human souls in Heaven?_ He thought apprehensively of Cas and Metatron on their surreal rebel-angel road trip and tried, unsuccessfully, to silence the ominous and unrelenting voice of Cassandra in his head.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. I love feedback!
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at: [amisplacedlonelyheartsad.tumblr.com](http://amisplacedlonelyheartsad.tumblr.com) or on LJ at: [misplaced_ad.livejournal.com](http://misplaced_ad.livejournal.com)


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